


The Poem

by MariposaenArullo (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2012-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-03 02:56:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/MariposaenArullo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock was nothing like what John expected him to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Poem

**Author's Note:**

> Some of you might recognize this - it's the same one as the piece I posted before. Being the less than superbly intelligent person I am, I accidentally deleted that one. So here we are, with a new chapter! (Is this an appropriate instance to use "Yolo"? I've never quite understood that.)

The class was called Interpersonal Relationships, and it was an actual course of study at John's new high school.

Not new, he reminded himself. He had attended Clifton Ealing High School for close to four full months now, and yet he still couldn't figure out why he needed to fill up his schedule with a class that centered on "interacting positively with others, making friends, and dealing with anger in a healthy way."

And even worse, the room was filled with people whom John would automatically label 'red-alert' and avoid. There were a number of different groups in the class, each with its own general reason for being dumped in the course.

There were the knuckleheads; giant apish blokes who inevitably played rugby, football, or sometimes even tennis. They were there because they had gotten into some masculine fight about their girlfriends, or more often, about their precious ability to throw, kick, or whack a ball better than another st upid oaf. Needless to say, they spent most of their time making idiotic homophobic comments and guffawing loudly.

Then there were the smokers, who hung out in the back corner with the potheads, fingers twitching with some imaginary joint, eyelids always threatening to droop closed.

Then the loners, a small faction of which John counted himself a part. He was only in the class because he was a transfer student, and he thought he could manage well enough on his own, thank you very much. He didn't plan on making any friends, anyway - he was only there for one and a half more years, then he would be gone in an instant, hopefully off to one of the premier military academies that he wanted to be accepted to, one with a good medical program as well. Playing doctor was only a hobby, though, a funny little interest that he couldn't quite bear to give up just yet. Anyways, there was such a thing as army doctors - how else were the wounded soldiers going to get patche d up and back on the front lines?

He wasn't a violent bloke, though, no matter how much he liked the feel of a gun in his hand. He wasn't a sadist, either, or a little boy who thought war was a glorified game. He just liked helping, though he had to admit he loved the thrill in his blood when firing out a round, when running flat out for dear life - even if it was just because he had stolen Harry's phone or something like that.

But he had to wait- so here he was, a small fish in a dangerous, roiling sea. Luckily, there were a few other kids who seemed as out of place as him. He assumed they had previously been goody-two-shoes golden boys who'd gotten caught with steroids or popping prescription drugs.

There was one boy, however, that John was mystified by. He didn't fit any of the other categories - he was a category in himself, snide and rude, with a cold, leering look. He was slim and tall, in John's year or the one above him, he guessed, with a str angely exotic face. John passed the boring forty-seven minutes every other day staring at the back of his curly dark head, bent over something in his lap, and wondering what his life was like.

The teacher called him Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes (a right strange name according to John), but the other kids called him 'fag' or 'freak.' He seemed both universally known and notoriously hated, and the whispers (not that John listened) said he was a crazy genius with a penchant for looking straight at you and knowing everything about your life with a cruel and consistent accuracy.

That and he liked blowing things up, apparently, which was purportedly his reason for ending up in a class of 'lower human spawn.' John was at the same time affronted and hopelessly intrigued, though he took special care to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, and he made certain that they never had the chance to exchange words. It wasn't that he was afraid of being seen with the bloke - he just didn't like being humiliated, and he had seen enough people reduced to tears by Holmes' cutting words to know the same fate would befall him. John wasn't a secret pervert or a psychopath, but no one likes to have their life story announced to the world, even worse to a class full of judgmental teenage delinquents.

He also had a terrible fear that the other boy had noticed him staring, even though he made sure to be subtle, and the fact that Holmes sat at the front of the classroom right in the middle of John's line of sight wasn't exactly a hindrance. Still, he cringed to imagine Holmes spout out that John was bloody well obsessed with him in front of everyone, and he resolved to be more careful with his observing.

The room was slowly filling up, and a swell of giggles and swears rose around him as Sherlock strode in, indifferent as always to the extra wave of sniggering that greeted his arrival. He ignored all of them, taking his customary seat with gracef ul arrogance. With a quick glance, John saw him take something out of his breast pocket and peer down at it. He wished, not for the first time, that he had a seat more beside the other boy - not next to him, God no, but to the right or the left of the other boy so he could glance over under the guise of checking the clock and see his profile, and maybe find out what was clutched in his hands.

The first bell rang, loud and jarring, and Mr. Lestrade hurried in, carrying a haphazard pile of papers. John felt bad for the teacher - he was a decent man, and he had to waste his time teaching this hopeless class. He did get paid, though, John thought, which was more than he himself got out of it.

The teacher set the papers down on the desk at the front, running a hapless hand through his silver hair.

"Good morning, everyone," he said wearily, glancing around at the rows of students. "Everyone here?"

There was a scornful silence. John wondered what the reaction would be if one day he jumped up eagerly, and shouted "Sir yes sir!" He imagined Holmes turning around, slow and disdainful, and fixing John with a contemptuous stare.

Lestrade was unfazed by the barely concealed hostility. He smiled tiredly. "Don't all jump in at once."

Unsurprisingly, there was no answer. John glanced at Sherlock's head. It was still bent down, seemingly ignorant of Lestrade's presence. John silently willed the teacher to notice the other boy - maybe then he would confiscate the mysterious object Holmes was so fascinated by.

Shockingly enough, it worked.

"Sherlock," Mr. Lestrade began, frowning down at the boy. He went unnoticed.

"Oi, faggot!" one of the jocks shouted from the back, then dissolved into laughter with his friends. Holmes kept his head down.

Lestrade frowned harder. "That's enough, Mr. Brenton," he said sharply, before addressing Holmes once more. "Sherlock!"

Finally, the boy deigned to raise his head. John couldn't see his face, but he could imagine it - carefully respectful, but with an underlying arrogant sneer that said he considered himself so far above the teacher he was surprised he could even form coherent sentences.

"My apologies, sir," the boy said smoothly, and beneath his baritone John could hear an undertone of contempt. "I didn't realize class had started."

Lestrade sighed. "Give it here," he ordered reluctantly.

"Pardon?"

The teacher sounded weary. "Give me the mobile phone, Sherlock," he repeated, holding out his hand and raising his eyebrows expectantly.

Sherlock was motionless for a second, then stood, long legs stretching. John watched, captivated.

He sauntered forward, placing a black phone in the teacher's hand with a just a little more force than strictly necessary - the only sign that he was even a little rattled by the ordeal. John studiously did not stare as he sat back down, sp rawling arrogantly on his chair.

Lestrade smiled humorlessly. "Thank you," he said sardonically, placing it on the desk next to his papers.

"Now, as you lot probably are unaware, even though I mentioned it at least ten times - our end of semester final project is coming up."

The teacher sorted through the sheets on the table, brow furrowed. He finally found the one he was looking for, and held the paper in front of his face, squinting.

"It's different, this year, so don't think you can steal from your buddies that graduated." He looked up. "You're going to be writing poems."

There were groans from his audience. John sighed internally, but leaned forward, listening carefully for Lestrade's next words. This class didn't have its name for nothing - all of their assignments and projects had to have an 'interpersonal' feature, meaning they all involved interaction with another person.

John wasn't too worried about that part, because luckily tod ay someone had sat down next to him, one of those nervous blokes who was so scared of the other kids he could barely speak. John disliked him, but he was convenient, because if he had been sitting alone Lestrade might have had to pair him up with another loner, Sherlock Holmes.

Lestrade continued. "For the next two weeks, you'll be working with one other person. You'll spend the class together and use all the friendship strategies we learned to get to know their real personality, and let go all your prejudices like I taught you." He cleared his throat. "Tonight, you'll write a sort of pre-poem - all your thoughts and observations about the person before learning about their interests and beliefs. Then, after the two weeks, you'll write a post-poem.

"I'm passing out a rubric. This is twenty percent of your mark for this course, and I'll be using this to evaluate your poems, so hold on to it, and don't pretend I didn't tell you."

The rubric said they were bei ng judged not based on the quality of their writing, but on the quality of their observations and 'voice.' John stared down at the paper with anxiety. He had absolutely nothing to say about the boy next to him - he didn't even know his name. David? Ben? He sighed again, casting a surreptitious glance at Sherlock, who hadn't even bothered to look at the paper and was gazing at the wall.

He wondered who the strange boy's partner would be, and felt even more glad that David-Ben had decided to plop down at his table today.

Lestrade finished passing out the papers and stood at the front of the room again. "Alright, read this over, because it tells you exactly what I want." He took off his glasses. "Oh - one more thing," he said slowly, waiting until all eyes settled back on him. "I'll be the one choosing your partners."

There was a shocked silence, then cries of protest filled the room. John just stared in horror, gripping the edge of the desk so h ard his hands turned white as the sheet in front of him.

"That's bollocks!"

"Yeah, you can't do that!"

Lestrade held up his hand wearily. When that didn't work, he shouted, "Quiet!"

Slowly, the voices petered out. Lestrade wore his serious face, eyes narrowed in annoyance. "Some of you - some of you -" he persevered over another muttered challenge - "believe that horsing around with your friend is going to get you an A. But that's just not true." He paused for emphasis. "I'll be drawing names out of a hat, so you can't blame me, just your own poor luck - and unless you want a zero, there won't be one complaint about the business."

He rummaged around in a drawer. John was frozen, suddenly feeling like he was watching the scene unfold from somewhere on the ceiling, watching himself bite his lip, watching Sherlock stare unblinkingly at the hat Lestrade pulled out and placed on the desk.

The teacher glared at them one last time. "And I don't want to hear any insults, not one word when you get your partner. You will be kind and friendly - or else you will fail." He coughed, and pulled a scrap of paper out of the hat.

"Nicholas Anderson." He rummaged around for a second. "And Sally Donovan."

The druggie and the bully glowered, but stayed silent. Lestrade waited for a moment, then continued.

"Angelo D'Accia- you're with Soo Lin Yao." The other transfer, a pretty Chinese girl, glanced fearfully at the heavyset Italian dealer, who leered back. John felt sorry for the girl.

The list went on, and John's stomach was a mass of squirrelly knots. It seemed harder and harder to swallow as he listened for his name or Sherlock's, heart pounding ominously as both remained unspoken.

Finally, it seemed like almost everyone had gotten a partner. John looked around feverishly, trying to spot someone - anyone - whose name hadn't been called. He was thinking so hard he almost missed Lestrade's bored 'John Watson.'

He gulped.

Lestrade cleared his throat, and John prayed to the god of school, the god of badly paid teachers, the god of undoubtedly rigged hat lotteries - but that didn't stop the words he knew were going to casually come out of the teacher's mouth.

"- and Sherlock Holmes." Lestrade threw the slip away carefully. "Class dismissed."

 

***

 

Sherlock Holmes was late. It didn't bother him, of course, but he already had received two tardies, and a third would get him on probation. This utterly ridiculous and pointless class was the only thing between him and a military academy for 'troubled boys', and Mummy's threats were never idle.

It wouldn't have been so dreadful if it had been a chemistry class he was forced into, but no, the poor Holmes boy who was so obviously suffering from a social disease just had to be placed in some heartwarming friendship-based class that was without a doubt wholly absurd and preposterous.

And to top it all off, he was being forced to complete actual work. No, not even that - to actively attempt to befriend another person.

It was ludicrous.

John Watson. Junior, transfer from private school - St. Vincent's, he concluded - who used to play rugby but sustained a serious injury a short while ago, judging by the fact that he isn't current ly on the team (he would have had a lot more friends if he were). Close cropped sandy hair - likes it out of his eyes - and an aesthetically pleasing face. Nothing out of the ordinary, but attractive. Fit, too, Sherlock noted distantly. How did he get exercise without bothering the injury?

Wounded shoulder, he decided. Sneakers worn down, but a new model so the wear wouldn't be from long use over time. A runner.

Sherlock rarely spent time in the lunchroom, but on occasion he did sneak in for a moment just to gain data on who was friends with who, and who wasn't. He could never do it for long, simply sit and stare uninhibited as he would have preferred. He didn't eat lunch. He found a bench outside and read a book, most days.

An yet he never saw Watson, cafeteria or otherwise. Where did he go? Sherlock knew every crack and cranny in the godforsaken building they called a school, and he had never once seen the other boy.

It was a mystery, he acknowledge d with some annoyance. Watson was like a tanned ghost. He was quiet in class, no friends, didn't make any effort to ingratiate himself with the other idiots in the class. Why? He could easily have been accepted with a few snide comments, a bit of pointed posturing towards Lestrade. Tripping Sherlock himself seemed to be the style nowadays, and if Watson had even just joined in the laughter whenever Sherlock spoke the boy would have a several imbeciles to choose from as friends.

But he was silent; perfectly invisible in all respects. It would have been intriguing to Sherlock if he hadn't had far too much experience with teenage boys. He had found they could all be placed in two categories: idiots who hated him outright, and idiots who resented him behind a mask because they were too afraid of him.

The latter were minutely more interesting, if only because he enjoyed baiting them. He'd take one look at them and tell them their secrets, their lives, everything. He liked the way their faces first scrunched up, confused, and then went red with helpless anger. He just smiled at them.

The first bell rang out in the empty corridor, and Sherlock was only a few steps away from the classroom. He threw open the door loudly, ignoring the eyes that followed his every move. Lestrade paused mid-lecture, arms out like he was making another plea that they complete their assignments, and he tightened his lips at the wry smile on the teacher's face.

"Thank you for joining us, Sherlock," he said with long-suffering patience, and Sherlock threw himself down into his seat, frowning. Ridiculous, he thought venomously.

John Watson was looking straight ahead, mouth pressed together like he was on the edge. The edge of what, Sherlock wondered, and then stopped himself firmly. It didn't matter.

"Alright," Lestrade continued, amused. "I'm going to come around with a sheet with the discussion topic for today, 'Daily Routin es.'" He passed the papers out, collecting their poems as he walked.

Sherlock took the sheet sullenly, passing up his poem. He glanced at Watson's with a prick of curiosity, able to see only two words, 'He can', because the other boy had folded it in half. Sherlock scowled. He must be embarrassed at his poor writing skills, he thought with a smirk. How many ways could there be to say "crazy queer"?

His own poem was one of his best works. Wordy and winding, it was close to ten pages long, written in iambic tetrameter. Sherlock had done his best to make it as confusing as possible, basing the whole piece around the use of a tailless mouse as a metaphor for Watson. The mouse was new to the zoo, except it was an alternate universe where mice were as large as humans and ran the world, while man was a tiny blip, relegated to menial tasks and dirty cages. Sherlock thought it made a mature, disturbing statement on the state of the world today. He doubted Lestrade would a gree.

Watson was staring down at the paper he had received with something that looked close to fear. Sherlock smirked. He hadn't even started speaking and the other boy was afraid of him. It was almost too good to be true.

Lestrade, now carrying a haphazard stack of pages, cleared his throat.

"Okay, everyone," he began. "Start with the question prompts at the top, and work your way through all of them. I'll be grading these-" he waved the pile, "-at my desk. I'll hand them back tomorrow with a grade."

He sat down, and looked up at the silent faces in front of him. "Well, go on, I want to hear talking. If I look up and see blank faces, I will fail you." He grinned. "Get to work!"

Sherlock stubbornly kept his eyes on the page in front of him. If Watson wanted to speak, he could. Sherlock wasn't about to engage in pointless pleasantries with a boy who probably couldn't even recite the quadratic formula.

He heard Watson cough, and looked up ag ainst his will. The boy was slightly red-faced, one hand clenched on the edge of his chair (interesting - sign of nerves or anger?) and licked his lips once. Sherlock felt his eyes drawn to Watson's mouth and looked away quickly.

"Er, so. Hello."

His voice was pleasant, not as deep as Sherlock's. There was a slightly gravelly tone to it.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Hello," he drawled, fixing his eyes on the other boy, who swallowed but didn't back down. Sherlock stifled a scowl in irritation. That wasn't how it was supposed to happen.

"Well." Watson looked down at the paper. "What are your everyday habits?" he asked, reading off the page.

Sherlock grimaced. This was worse than he had thought.

"I wake up, take the car to the school, attend my classes, take the car to my house, complete my schoolwork, and retire to bed," he recited, making his voice bored. Of course, that wasn't even the half of what he did in his time, but Watson definitel y didn't need to know that. He'd probably wet his pants if he found out, Sherlock thought with a sneer.

Watson was looking at him strangely, and Sherlock was annoyed that he couldn't seem to decipher the other boy's face. "What?" he snapped finally, irritation coloring his voice.

The shorter boy started a little. "You don't -" he paused. "You don't do anything? Else, I mean?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What were you expecting, that I torture animals in my free time? Maybe a spot of necrophilia?"

"No," the boy said defensively. "I mean, what do you do for fun?" He glared at Sherlock stubbornly.

"I conduct experiments." Perhaps that would satisfy him. The boy was a nuisance.

His admission didn't seem to have the desired effect. Watson brightened, looking interested. "What kind of experiments?" he asked curiously.

None that you'd understand, Sherlock thought. He did like talking about his work, however, and the one he was involved in now was particularly fascinating. It might even shut the boy up, too.

"At the moment I am researching the effect of certain compounds on human retinal fluid and areas of the pancreas - solubility among other things. Of course I do not have access to a human pancreas, as I would like, so I make do with a pig's." He looked at Watson, anticipating a horrified, shocked stare - but the other boy appeared as if he was actually hanging on Sherlock's every word. It should have been bothersome. Sherlock frowned.

"Christ," Watson breathed, and Sherlock looked at him sharply. "That's - really cool." Sherlock stared at him. The boy flushed, but continued on, undaunted. "What compounds are you using?"

"Aluminium oxide."

Watson nodded. "So, what was the result?" he inquired, and Sherlock gave him a dirty look. He didn't need to fake interest for a good grade, Sherlock thought, vexed. He himself was quite fine keeping their conversation stilted and impersonal.

He cleared his throat. "The experiment is still in the preliminary stages, but in the first tests I have found that the substance is in fact soluble in the retinal fluid, and -"

Watson cut him off, smiling. "- insoluble in the pancreas," he finished. Sherlock stared at him again.

"How did you know that?" he demanded, unable to keep his tone as cold as he wished.

The boy grinned. "I like biology," he admitted shyly, ducking his head.

Sherlock sat back, processing this. Unexpected, he concluded. Perhaps not as unintelligent as first predicted.

"You want to be a doctor," he stated, suddenly wanting to gain back the upper hand. He wanted to see that fear on Watson's face again, wanted his face to spasm in shock, wanted to make him angry. He wanted to prove he was like the other oafs, because Sherlock knew he was - they all were, in the end. Anyway, Sherlock already knew everything about him. Granted, not the amateur biologist b it, but he had picked up on that soon enough.

Watson was surprised, but not half-terrified, not irate - not yet. "How do you know that?"

Sherlock smiled. "Why else would you study biology?" he asked, and then continued on without an answer.

"You've got a brother, two years younger. Must be in trouble of some sort because he and your mother aren't getting along. Perhaps he's struggling with his sexuality." He heard a sharp sound from Watson but ignored it, eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond his head.

"You moved from St. Vincent's High School at the start of this year, and you played on their rugby team. Then you got injured. You moved here, a poorer neighborhood, so something must have happened economically. Perhaps a parent lost their job? Father is absent; judging from the letter you keep from him tucked in your binder. I saw his signature when you retrieved your poem."

Sherlock felt excitement rising in him, sharp and trembling. Watson wa s still silent beside him, but Sherlock didn't look at him, not yet, because he wasn't finished.

"So, military father. If he had left, there would be painful memories - you wouldn't put a sign of his in a place you would see every day. Mother must work, so she lost her job. Probably a teacher, they've been hit hardest by the recession."

"That brings me to you. You haven't tried out for the rugby team here, because they -" he gestured vaguely to the back corner where the rugby jocks sat, "- would have teased you at the start of the year for not making the cut. No one knows you. You're also a habitual jogger, judging by your sneakers. But why would you try so hard to keep in shape? You must really enjoy running. But maybe you're preparing for something - trying out next year? Likely not, as you would have tried harder to befriend the current team members. No, you're anticipating something else. Military father obviously dear to you, so being a soldier would have a positive connotation to you. Perhaps you also want to be a soldier, like your father. But you also admitted to wanting to become a doctor. So, perhaps your dream is to be an army doctor."

There was one last thing. "You also feel as if your education is pointless, as you have made no attempt to toady to the ruling masses here. If you had valued your enrollment you would have endeavored to 'fit in', as they say. Judging from that, you are currently suffering from a mild case of depression, possibly as a result of the constant worry about your father, but more likely originating from of your lack of social skills and your mother's strained relationship with your brother." He sat back in satisfaction, alert for a punch.

But Watson was simply staring at him, and Sherlock thought he detected something like relief in the boy's eyes. Sherlock looked at him in frustration. He didn't look angry - why wasn't he angry? Sherlock had just exposed his life story, and the infuri ating boy was just sitting there, looked positively baffled.

"That was," the boy began haltingly, "amazing."

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, feeling a faint blush creep up into his cheeks. He swallowed slowly. "Do you think so?"

"Of course it was!" Watson looked incredulous. "It was bloody extraordinary!" He grinned, seeming startled, yes, but not angry. Almost happy, even.

Sherlock realized he was staring and turned his head sharply so it was facing ahead. "That's not what people normally say," he said.

Watson made a sound suspiciously like a small huff of laughter. "What do people normally say?" he ventured curiously, and Sherlock thought that this was definitely not proceeding how he had imagined it to.

"'Piss off,'" he replied emotionlessly, looking down at the paper in front of him without seeing the words.

Sherlock was certain he heard giggles this time. He looked over, shocked to see the other boy muffling his laughter w ith a fist.

"Sorry," Watson gasped, schooling his face into seriousness. "It's just - well, you're a bloody genius."

It was true, of course, but that didn't stop Sherlock from being astonished, and Sherlock Holmes was never astonished. He licked his lips slowly, feeling all of the sudden a bit lost. Unexpected, he thought again.

"Thank you," he replied, and if it was a bit stiff, it was worth the look of pleased surprise on Watson's face.

"No problem," the boy said cautiously. Sherlock let his gaze linger on him for a bit longer than strictly necessary, his mind strangely slow and foggy for some reason.

Whatever unusual 'brain freeze' he was experiencing, it took a few moments before he could gather his thoughts. "Did I get anything wrong?" he inquired, attempting a casual tone.

Watson fidgeted, biting his lip. "My dad's in Kandahar," he said. "Mum's an ESL teacher. She just got laid off in Chiswick."

"Completely correct, then," Sherlock said, resisting the urge to preen. He glanced at Watson, wondering if he would repeat his compliment.

"Not completely," the boy replied instead, and the corner of his mouth quirked up. "Harry's short for Harriet."

"Your sister."

"Yeah," Watson confirmed, grinning.

"Sister!" Sherlock hissed, and scowled. Watson laughed.

"Don't worry, mate. You got the rest all right," he reassured Sherlock, then glanced down at the assignment sheet and around the room. It seemed as if they were far behind the other pairs, who seemed to be wrapping up their discussions. "We better get going, even though... that was still incredible," he continued, almost shy now.

Sherlock looked down, slightly befuddled by events. He blinked, studying Watson's face for a bit longer than necessary once again, and looked down sharply. He had never blushed, and he wasn't about to start now.

 

***

 

Sherlock was silent for a while, organizing the data of the exchange into neat piles in his mind. It didn't add up. Watson had complimented him, even after Sherlock had been unaccountably rude and inconsiderate. It made no sense.

But then - oh. He was pretending, for Lestrade. For a good mark. Playing nice with the friendless outcast. Obvious. No one could be that kindhearted.

He saw Watson shift uncomfortably beside him.

"Erm, well. Shall we...?"

Sherlock nodded, scanning the second question on the sheet in front of him, and pondering the odd sour taste in his mouth. There were exactly six minutes left in the class, and then he would be free to go home, explode the table or one of Mycroft's old suits, and just stop thinking.

"What is the one item you would consider necessary to your daily life and why?" he recited detachedly, focusing his eyes firmly on the line of clear black text. That question would be Watson's to answe r, and he was definitely not curious as to what the response would be. Not curious in the least.

The boy was quiet for a moment. "I guess it would be my journal," he said, a trifle defensively.

"And why?"

There was no response for several seconds. "I suppose it helps," Watson said quickly, words rushed together. "You know, with the... stuff."

Frowning, Sherlock stared down at the paper in front of him. He presumed Watson meant the depression.

"So... what role do your friends play in determining your schedule?" Watson hurried to change the subject, reading the next line aloud and propping his chin on his hand.

Sherlock flinched inwardly. Both he and Watson knew he didn't have any friends - because he didn't need them, he huffed angrily.

Thankfully, the bell sounded a few long seconds later, and Sherlock permitted himself a tiny sigh of relief. His notebook, crammed with various papers and notes, was laying precariously on the edge of the desk, and he reached for it just as a beefy boy knocked it deliberately with his hip.

He scowled fiercely. The ripped up pages he had hastily stuck into the book were all over the floor, and with a angry set of his lips Sherlock bent down and began to retrieve them.

And then he saw another pair of hands next to his.

Watson. Insufferable. Of course, the idiot couldn't let the golden boy act up until Lestrade was out of the room.

And furthermore, those were his private notes, Sherlock thought fiercely, snatching the scraps of paper out of the other boy's hands without a word. He was fuming. Those were his!

"I have no need of your help," he snarled in a low voice, grabbing at the slips littering the ground. What if Watson had seen something? Sherlock made observations of himself and the world every day, clinical and organized, and his body was no different than any other teenage boys. Regrettable, of course, but normal. He was sure his ears wer e scarlet, and that only made him more furious.

He saw Watson hesitate, and wished the boy would just disappear.

Lestrade seemed to read Sherlock's mind. "John," he called. "Can I see you for a moment?" The man was holding a marked up sheet of paper with a very clear crease down the middle - as if someone had folded it.

Watson's poem, Sherlock concluded, feeling a stab of curiosity against his will. Why would Lestrade want to talk about his poem? He kept his ears sharp and alert, trying to make out their conversation, but Lestrade's gruff baritone was inaudible and John seemed to be keeping silent.

Sherlock gathered up the rest of his things swiftly, wanting badly to leave before Watson and the teacher were done speaking, but he had no such luck. He was shoving his notebook in his bag when the boy came back to their shared table, the tips of his ears flaming.

Was it from embarrassment or anger? Sherlock wondered, glowering as he put his bag on his shoulder. He strode out without a word to Lestrade or Watson, and, sighing, heard the sound of frantic steps behind him. He increased his pace.

"No need to keep up the show," he called out contemptuously, mouth twisting as Watson came up beside him. "I give you a standing ovation. Bravo."

Sherlock's head felt light and airless. He decided he was due for another meal.

"What?" Watson asked, keeping up easily, and Sherlock frowned. Runners, he thought, chagrined.

He decided to end the conversation as quickly as possible, and stopped abruptly. "I said," he repeated slowly, as if speaking to a toddler, "Bravo." Wheeling around in the opposite direction, he continued, "You've no need to make nice with me. I assure you, it is wholly unnecessary."

Watson was still right beside Sherlock, staring at him like he was an alien. Sherlock looked back in irritation. "What?"

They were in the back courtyard by now, and Watson's mouth was hanging slightl y open. His hair was really very golden in the fresh air, Sherlock mused, and why in the world was he noticing that?

Delete.

Still gawking at Sherlock, Watson squinted up, confusion showing in every feature of his face. "What the…?" he began, looking genuinely baffled. "What are you on about?"

Sherlock refused to make eye contact. "I am referring to the fact that you want a good mark for that abominable class. Really, helping the charity case isn't very original, but I suppose you all never think of anything new." He glared down at Watson. "Except, you're still here. Which is a veritable enigma, as far as I am concerned, as Lestrade is no longer in sight. Did he assign you to follow me home? Maybe make sure I wash behind my ears and don't slit my wrists in the nighttime?"

Watson was gaping. "No," he replied indignantly. "No, you've got it wrong."

"I am never wrong," Sherlock retorted icily.

"Well, you are about this."

"Am I?"

"Yes."

They stared at each other angrily for a few moments. Watson's face was stubborn, lips set in a mulish line - but Sherlock wasn't looking at his lips. Or his lapis lazuli eyes. Unusual shade, he noted remotely, studying the boy's face intently.

"Well then, if you wouldn't mind, enlighten me," Sherlock said bitingly, gaze challenging.

Watson frowned. "Fine. Truth is, I wasn't pretending. That thing you did back there, it was brilliant. Really. I've never seen anything like it." He raked a hand through his hair absently, leaving it tousled. Sherlock was struck with an insane desire to reach out and smooth it down again, and curled his hands into fists.

"Alright, I'm going," Watson said, seeming to have noticed the gesture, and though the words were light Sherlock could hear a thread of bitterness underneath them.

He watched the shorter boy walk a few steps away before bursting out, "Why did Lestrade wish to speak with you?"

"He was, u m, complimenting me. On my poem." Watson sighed, and scuffed a foot on the ground.

"Is that so?"

"Yes!" Watson's lips turned up a bit at the corners. "He said... it was good. Well-written, I mean. And, um, insightful."

Insightful? Insightful about Sherlock? How in God's name...?

"Why did he say that?" he inquired evenly, and Watson was blushing.

Why was he blushing? Why?

Infuriating.

"Er, I dunno. Stuff I said, I guess."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, wanting to grab the other boy by the shoulders and shake the answers out of him. "Yes, and would you care to elaborate?" he asked, and this time he couldn't keep the impatience from creeping into his tone.

Mouth parted slightly, Watson looked at him for a moment, appearing as if he were weighing something in his mind.

"Well, I said you were like an antique," he admitted, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and pointer finger.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, considering. An antique? Certainly not the worst thing he had been called, and he wasn't even sure the term was an insult.

"Why?"

"Because!" Watson said, waving his hands around. Sherlock stared at him. "You look like a lord, or something. You dress -"

"I wear the same uniform as everyone else."

"Yes, but on you it's different!" Watson burst out, then pressed his lips together so tight they disappeared. He looked mortified. "I mean - well. Bollocks," he muttered, looking down.

His lack of clarity was aggravating. Sherlock frowned again.

"I do not understand your point," he said rigidly. Watson looked up and let out a slight snort of laughter.

"Well, alright. It doesn't matter," he said, and then smiled. It was uncertain, and shy, and Sherlock's brain did a little stutter-stutter as he watched.

He automatically gave the boy one of his patent 'social obligation' smiles, but it felt different when Watson grinned wider, eyes crinkling, and Sher lock wanted to trace the crease of his eyelids. He looked away, feeling heat bloom uncomfortably under his collar. Ridiculous, he huffed, shifting his bag around on his back. Utterly ludicrous.

Sherlock could see the car in the distance, Billy waiting patiently in the front seat. He glanced at Watson, feeling strangely hesitant. "You've missed the bus home," he stated, studying the boy.

"Oh, bloody hell!" Watson looked at his watch, turning to see the nearly empty parking lot.

"I have a car," Sherlock said suddenly. The offer was surprising even to his ears, and he cringed. "If you have need of a lift to your house."

Watson's eyes brightened. "Really?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied dismissively, taking that as an acceptance. He turned and began to stride away, leaving Watson to scramble after him.

"Wait up!"

They reached the car simultaneously, and Sherlock pouted. He needed to exercise more.

"Are you sure it's -"

"Please g et in," Sherlock replied shortly, arranging himself in the back seat. Watson hesitated for a moment, then clambered in next to him.

It prompted a strange feeling of pride, sitting there with another person. Not a friend, of course, but a classmate. An acquaintance, nothing more. Sherlock had never had an acquaintance.

He wondered what Watson's house looked like.

 

***

 

The temperature inside Sherlock's car was the perfect balance of warm and cool, but John felt a bit hot nonetheless.

Sherlock was ignoring him in favor of fiddling with his mobile phone, and John kept his gaze trained on the trees whizzing past, ground covered in slowly melting snow.

:::

After perhaps ten minutes of smooth silence, Sherlock tucked the mobile into his blazer's breast pocket. John waited a few moments and cleared his throat.

"So, erm, we've got to finish the rest of the questions. I suppose. Eventually."

Sherlock grimaced. "Dull."

"Yeah," John agreed, and he bit back a grin. The scenery outside the window was still unfamiliar, and he wondered for a second whether Sherlock had kidnapped him to be part of one of his experiments. He found it worrisome that the thought didn't fill him with dread, just a breathless sort of exhilaration.

Soon enough, however, they passed the local cinema, then the diner his mum wanted them to try out, and then in a flash the car pulled to a stop outside John's house. He bit his lip, suddenly embarrassed. Through Sherlock's eyes it must have seemed decrepit; the paint job needed a lot of fixing up, and more than one window was boarded up.

"Thanks,” John said lamely. Sherlock had his phone out again, and didn't look up. "Do you want to -" he stopped, throat dry. Was he really going to do this? "Do you want to maybe come in, for a bit? Tea, or something? We can finish the questions, if you like."

Sherlock head jerked up, shock flashing in his eyes for a fraction of a second, and John could have sworn he saw a bit of fear there as well.

"Look, you don't have to," John began, stomach churning. Bloody hell, he had ruined everything. "It's alright, I was just -"

Sherlock cut him off. "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I accept. It is..." he paused. "Practical." He extracted himself from the car with an easy grace. The w indow rolled down. "Billy, please inform Mummy that I will be home late. I am working on a school project, if she asks."

The chauffeur grinned amiably. "You know she will, Mr. Holmes. She always does."

Sherlock frowned. "Yes, I know," he said crossly. "Thank you."

The driver gave a mock salute. "My pleasure, Mr. Holmes," he answered. "Just send the word when I should return."

He rolled down the window, and the car sped off. John led the way up to the door, cursing himself. "My mum's a bit loony," he warned, fishing around in his pockets for the key to the front door. "But she's very nice, and makes great food, so I keep her around." He looked up to see if Sherlock had laughed at the joke.

He hadn't. He was gazing at the house, and John could practically see the gears working in his brain, processing and storing the information in the shadowy corners of his mind.

The key clicked in the lock at last. John pushed open the door with trepidat ion, holding it open for Sherlock and closing it behind him. "You can put your bag down here, if you want," he offered, taking his backpack off and setting it against the wall. Sherlock situated his bag next to John's and then straightened up. He was strangely quiet, and it was a bit frightening, weirdly enough.

"John, sweetie, is that you?"

Mother, John sighed, and then shouted, "Yes, mum, it's me!"

He heard her bustling around in the kitchen. Good mood then, he mused, thanking god. She never cooked unless she was feeling well. He started towards the kitchen, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Sherlock was following. The boy looked back, raising one elegant eyebrow. John flushed.

"Dearie, why are you so late -"

His mum, brown curls frizzier than normal, stopped dead when she saw Sherlock.

John was impressed that he had actually managed to render her speechless. But Mrs. Watson recovered lightning-fast, drying her hands on her favor ite plaid apron and smiling so widely John thought her face might split in two.

"Hello," she said cheerily.

"Mum," John began in warning, but she had already bounded over to them, beaming. She extended her hand to Sherlock, talking quickly.

"What's your name? I'm John's mum. It's so nice to meet you!” She sucked in a quick breath. “I'm so glad he brought a friend over! I mean to say, it's just been ages. I was worried, you know, new school and all, but he's such a nice boy I just knew a friend would come along -"

John stopped her there, face tomato-red. "Mum!" He rubbed the back of his neck, pointedly not looking at Sherlock. "We're just working on a school project."

'Practical', Sherlock had called it. Well, fine. John would keep it practical.

His mum deflated a little, eyes darting back and forth between them.

Then Sherlock reached out and clasped her hand in his, shaking it as if she were a court lady, dainty and delicate. " Lovely to meet you, too, Mrs. Watson," he declared, smiling radiantly. "I'm Sherlock."

John gawked at him. His mother, meanwhile, was melting. "Oh, you're too sweet," she cooed, and John could have sworn he saw her blush.

Sherlock glanced at John. "Well, I suppose we ought to get started, John," he said, and his eyes crinkled with the force of his smile. What a suck-up, John thought nastily, a little piqued that he’d manged to charm his mum so quickly. He knew Sherlock didn’t give one fuck about this, so he didn’t have to pretend.

"Oh, bless your heart," Mrs. Watson cooed.

"Yeah," John bit out through gritted teeth. "I suppose we should get going, Sherlock." What was he playing at, being a complete prat to John and then talking up John's mum like he was a fucking prince?

Mrs. Watson looked scandalized. "Sweetie," she scolded. "You haven't offered our guest any refreshment."

"Alright, mum," he said, and stomped over to the fridge. Bloody stupid Sherlock with his bloody stupid smile and his equally stupid charming fucking face.

His mum patted a chair. "Sit down, dear," she told Sherlock, and shooed John away from the refrigerator.

He took the neighboring seat grudgingly, keeping his eyes locked on the granite counter top as his mother set a plate of cookies down on the table. ‘Talk to him!’ she mouthed. John scowled.

It had been weirdly sunny for a few days, and he really was going to say something about that, but the door opened loudly before he could say a word.

"Oh, that'll be Harriet!" his mother said happily, and swept towards the foyer.

John swore again, this time under his breath. He heard the conversation from the kitchen.

"Harry, darling, hello!"

"Mum," was the curt reply. John winced.

"How did you get home, sweetie?"

"Someone drove me, obviously."

John could imagine his mother forging on in the face of the one-word responses.

"Who was it, dear?"

Bad move, John thought. He gripped the edge of the table, trying to block out the conversation.

"Why do you care? I'm home now, right? Don't smother me."

"Darling, I only -"

He heard Harry throw her bag down. "You're so annoying."

"Harry, I just want to be involved in your life. I'm trying, I really am." John's mother's voice was cracking, and he closed his eyes.

"Don't bother." John heard Harry pound up the stairs, and then her door banged shut.

John cursed and went to find his mum, who was staring at the staircase with a dazed, shocked expression. He put his arm around her, and she laid her head on his shoulder. "What did I do, John?"

"Nothing," he replied, hating his sister. He stroked her hair, and after a few moments she straightened up, smoothing her apron and plastering on a fake, fragile grin.

"I'm fine, dear. Thank you." She pulled him into a hug. "You're a good boy."

John managed a weak smile, pressed into her shoulder. "Thanks, mum."

She reached out and smoothed the short fringe of his hair. "Run along, now. And be nice," she added, fixing him with a mock glare. John smiled again, stronger this time. That was better.

Damn. Sherlock. He was still seated at the table, fingers intertwined and resting on his mouth, eyes faraway and fixed on some indeterminate point.

John sat down heavily and reached for another cookie. "Sorry about that," he muttered awkwardly, breaking it in half and offering the bigger piece to Sherlock.

The taller boy seemed to awaken from some deep meditation. "What?"

John held out the broken cookie. Sherlock frowned distastefully, and he withdrew his hand with a shrug.

"So," he began, feeling completely and totally out of his depth. "Do you want to go up to my room?"

He flushed bright red as soon as the words came out, realizing how they sounded a bit too late. He licked his lips. "I mean, to work. On the thing."

Spot-on, John, he thought, kicking himself. Great way to sound like a pervert.

He thought he saw a faint twitch of amusement in the corner of Sherlock's lips. "Shut up."

Sherlock rose. "I don’t believe I said anything," he responded, seeming genuinely hurt. John just looked at him for a second, and then let out a chuckle. Sherlock frowned. "What?"

"You're a great actor, you know," John commented dryly, trudging up the stairs. He did a mental check - he had put all the clothes in the hamper this morning, so no underwear lying in embarrassing places; porn magazine (a parting gift from a mate at his old school) safely hidden in the closet. Everything was in its place.

Sherlock bounded up the steps behind him. "How did you know I was acting?" he asked.

John spoke without thinking. "Because I know you," he replied, and then stopped dead outside his door. Fucking hell, he thought, and stuttered out, "I mean, I know th e real you."

Sherlock was still behind him, and John couldn't quite look him in the eye. "What is the real me, pray tell?"

"Just - forget it." John shook his head and pushed open the door. "Well. Here it is." He raised his hands. "Welcome to my humble abode!"

Sherlock smirked, taking in the crumpled but made bed, the nightstand piled with books, the couch (perpetually smelling of mothballs) that had been a gift from John's Aunt Francine.

Seeming satisfied with his observations, he strode over and lowered himself gracefully onto the shabby sofa, crossing his legs at the knee.

"Make yourself at home," John said wryly, and plopped down onto the bed, laying on his stomach.

Sherlock was staring at him, but when John looked back he broke off his gaze quickly and pulled out a rumpled sheet of paper. "I have the questions."

John rested his head on his hands. "Alright, let's start. Didn't we leave off at the 'role of your friends' one?"

He wasn't expecting the crease between Sherlock's eyebrows and the almost imperceptible thinning of his lips.

"Fine," Sherlock said, voice considerably colder. "If it needs saying, then I shall say it. I don't have friends." He was glaring daggers at John.

"Neither do I," John countered. It was the truth; his mates at St. Vincent's barely contacted him, and they had never really got on well in the first place.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and John braced himself for a nasty retort. But shockingly enough, he just looked back down at the paper.

"How much time do you spend on the computer per day?"

John considered the question. "About an hour," he replied, factoring in homework and checking his email for any news from his dad. He wasn't the social networking type.

Sherlock sniffed, recrossing his legs. "Four to five," he threw out.

"What do you do for all that time?" John asked, genuinely curious, then reddened. What if it was porn?

It's not porn, he told himself firmly. Anyway, Sherlock didn't - couldn't - do that, and John suddenly had to stop his thoughts very quickly.

He rolled over on his back, trying to force his face into its normal color. Where the hell had that thought come from?

"Research," came the bored reply.

"Oh." John licked his lips. "How many more of these are there?" he asked, then backtracked. "I mean, not that I'm not enjoying this -" he squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm just curious."

"Two," Sherlock answered, ignoring his stammers.

"Right," John said, and blew a long whoosh of air out his mouth. Perhaps he could manage to not make a complete arse of himself until Sherlock left.

 

***

 

They sat in silence for a little while, until John got uncomfortable and rolled back onto his stomach. Sherlock moved his eyes from where they had been studying the wall.

"Shall we continue?”

“Er, yeah.”

Sherlock cleared his throat, looking disinterested. “Next is: How does food dictate your habits? I.e., do you keep to a strict diet or indulge?" He continued, "Easy. I eat rarely, only when my body necessitates it."

"That's not very healthy.”

"I'm not dead, am I?" Sherlock said idly. The corner of his mouth quirked up. "Yet, at least."

"Still.” John frowned. “Your body needs nutrients."

"Yes, thank you, Doctor Watson."

Prat, John thought again. “Just get on with it," he said, rolling his eyes.

"As you wish." Sherlock looked down at the paper. "Last question: If you had one word to describe your daily life, what would it be and why?"

"Well," John scratched his head self-consciously. "Um. I suppose I would call it boring. Ordinary," he added quickly. What a stupid question. They were all stupid questions, no wonder Sherlock looked like he was bored out of his mind.

"Mine is predictable."

“What?” When he looked up, Sherlock’s gaze was locked on one of the stains in the carpet. "Predictable?" he repeated, staring quizzically. "Really?"

"Oh, do you have a better word?"

"No.” Jesus, why was he so prickly? “It's just - my life is predictable. Yours is anything but."

"Just because I act differently does not signify that I find my existence interesting." The words had a certain bite to them, and Sherlock’s eyes swung to meet John’s gaze suddenly. He looked irritated.

"Okay, well, fine. Sorry,” John said awkwardly.

Sherlock leaned forward, eyes flashing with curiosity. "Why do you find your life ordinary?"

"Um.” John tried to find a coherent answer. “It jus t - it just is. I mean, I've got a mum and a dad, and a house. I go to school every day. And I'm not missing a limb or an eye or anything." He considered the question again. "Yep. Pretty normal."

"Your father's in the military," Sherlock retorted, gazing at John with what he could have sworn was genuine puzzlement. "Your sister's a lesbian -"

"Oi! Keep your voice down!"

Sherlock brushed this off. "And you're far more intelligent than the average human male," he concluded.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You heard me perfectly, I'm not saying it again."

"You think I'm intelligent?" He must have been grinning like a madman. Sherlock watched him carefully, expression unreadable.

"It's not an opinion, it's a fact," he replied curtly, crumpling the question sheet and stowing it his pocket.

John chuckled and flopped onto his back with a loud thump, hearing the springs whine in protest. "I'm not actually that smart," he said dryly. "As much as I 'd like to be." He sighed. "I'm failing maths."

Sherlock was silent, eyes on the floor once more. John bit his lip. I’m boring him, he thought again.

"I could... help you, if you wish,” Sherlock said, slower than anything he had said before.

Was he serious? "Could you?" John scrambled onto his knees and ran a surprised hand through his hair. "That would be brilliant!" Sherlock just stared at him again, frowning, and John slowed down a bit, uncertain. "I mean -"

"What are you studying?" Sherlock interrupted, ignoring him. He traced the seam of the couch with one long, thin finger.

The finger, much more bony and elegant than any of John’s, was hypnotizing. John tore his eyes away. "Oh, erm, differential equations," he said absently, wondering if Sherlock played the piano.

"I learned that at age ten," Sherlock declared, mouth twisting in condescension.

"I'll have you know I'm in an advanced class," John informed him i ndignantly. "For normal people, I suppose."

He slid off his bed, stifling a laugh at the sight of Sherlock’s pout. Not many people bothered to talk to Sherlock Holmes, let alone tease him. It was sort of exhilarating, like outwitting an angry bear, and he smiled as he crossed the room.

"I"ll go get my assignment, maybe you could help me with that."

:::

Their legs were about ten inches apart when John sat down on the sofa. He couldn’t help but notice Sherlock stiffen beside him as he lowered himself onto the cushion, and with a rush of hurt (you’re being stupid) he moved his thigh farther away.

It didn’t make him feel any better that Sherlock was acting like a bloody statue, all frozen and rigid. It was like he thought John was contagious, or something. John set down the two sheets of paper, placing the pencil within Sherlock's reach. He hesitated.

"Well, if you could explain the first one, er, that would be..."

“Of cou rse.” The words were clipped and short, but Sherlock picked up the pencil and began to scribble underneath the first problem. John watched with fascination, almost disappointed when he stopped writing in his strange, mostly unreadable scrawl.

John sat silently for a few seconds, awaiting an explanation to the hastily-written, confusing solution.

“Well.” Sherlock looked impatient, reclining elegantly beside him, the picture of a haughty prince. “Go on. The rest are similar.”

"What?" John asked finally, amazed. "You expect me to just... get it, just like that?"

"Yes.” The taller boy seemed annoyed. "I wrote it out for you. Look at it."

John rubbed his eyes. "First of all," he began. "I can't read that." He gestured to Sherlock's lines of equations. "Second, you need to explain. I mean, tell me why."

Sherlock gazed at him, and John was sure he was going to spring up angrily and stride out of the house. But instead he picked up the paper again, sighing like it was unthinkable to have to elucidate his brilliance.

"First of all," Sherlock began disdainfully, then launched into a lengthy explanation, mentioning functions and 'vector-valued' and 'matrix-valued' and partial derivatives, and John had to pull on his sleeve a few times to slow him down.

John was working through one of the problems, Sherlock leaning over his shoulder, when his mum knocked on the door.

He jumped in surprise, jolting Sherlock's jaw with his shoulder. "Sorry!" he said guiltily, realizing suddenly how close they had been sitting. "You alright?"

Sherlock had retreated to the edge of the sofa, hand on his jaw, looking annoyed. "I believe so," he answered stiffly, massaging it with his fingers.

Mrs. Watson knocked again, louder this time. "John!" she called with concern. "Are you two alright in there?"

"Yes, we're fine! You can open the door."

She poked her head in, beaming. "O h Sherlock dear, you're helping John with his schoolwork, you're so kind."

Sherlock managed a smile in return. "It's no trouble, Mrs. Watson," he said. "I covered this months go."

John's mother didn't notice the condescending tone, and murmured praise while John coughed awkwardly. He felt a bit cold all of the sudden, and snorted at himself. It wasn’t like he and Sherlock had been cuddling, or anything stupid like that. There was no reason for him to be shivering. Stupid, he told himself again. Stop being such an idiot.

"John, will Sherlock be staying for dinner?" His mother looked at him expectantly.

Bloody fuck. John could only imagine the destruction she could wreak during a whole dinner. “Er, would you like to?” he asked Sherlock, trying to sound like he really wanted the other boy to stay, and not like he’d rather have a rat gnaw his fingers off.

Sherlock frowned at him, eyes lingering on John's for a moment. H e looked as if he were trying to see right into John. _Well, for all you know, he can._ The thought was beyond terrifying. Sherlock gave a little cough. “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you -”

“Of course not, dear!” Mrs. Watson interjected earnestly. “We’d love to have you!”

Realizing that he was gaping at Sherlock like a fish, John shook the fog out of his brain. “Yeah, it’s the least I can do now that you’ve practically done my assignment,” he said, grinning.

Sherlock looked at him for another long second. “Well, I suppose that would be very enjoyable,” he said slowly. He swung his eyes from John to his mother, and John felt his body relax, now that he wasn’t pinned down by the other boy’s gaze. Christ, he stared at you like he was either going to stick a knife in your ribs or kiss you.

And John was going to shut up, before his fucking queer mind could somehow get his mouth to blurt out somethin g he’d rather not have said. Especially not with his mum right there.

"Oh, how nice," his mum exclaimed. Her happy look faded for a second, replaced by something akin to horror. “Dear me, I’ll have to make another serving of everything!”

 

***

 

For all her worrying, it ended up only taking his mum a half an hour to fix up another serving for Sherlock. Her frazzled “Dinner!” floated up the stairs barely a minute after John had scribbled down his last answer.

He put the pencil down with a satisfied sigh and stood, stretching, as Sherlock rose beside him. "Guess you're going to have to eat real food," he said, grinning broadly.

“At least it’s for a good cause.”

John chuckled.

:::

Harry was standing at the top of the stairs when they opened the door, hair in a messy ponytail and dressed in loose sweatpants and one of their dad's old jumpers. The sleeves were bunched up to her elbows, and she was grinning down at her new phone, thumbs moving at the speed of light. John bet his life she was texting Clara, who was, as far as he could gather, Harry’s sort of girlfriend. Whatever that meant. He was reserving judgement on Clara , for now.

His sister looked up in surprise at the sight of Sherlock, mouth twisting. "Who's your friend, Johnny?"

"Don't call me that," John said through clenched teeth. He sighed. "Sherlock, Harry. Harry, Sherlock."

"Sherlock Holmes?" Harry’s grin widened, and she ran her eyes up and down the tall boy curiously. "You're Sherlock Holmes?"

"Guilty as charged.” Sherlock managed a frosty smile.

Harry was still appraising him. "I know who you are," she said loftily. "People talk about you. You're supposed to be totally mad."

Sherlock said nothing.

"He's hotter than I imagined," she continued conspiratorially, leaning over to John as her eyes lingered on Sherlock's chest and legs. "Not my cup of tea, though."

Well, leave it to Harry to make this even more bloody awkward than it had to be. "Yes, well…" he trailed off, wishing she would just go down the fucking stairs.

She was still gazing up at Sherlock, eyes challenging. "Well? Don't you want to know why I don't want you, big boy?" She leaned back and folded her arms.

"I already know," Sherlock replied with a cold smile.

"I didn't tell him," John said quickly, fearing another tantrum. But Harry just looked at the other boy, mouth open in excitement.

"So it's true," she breathed, then whooped out a laugh. "You are a freaky genius." A few seconds passed, slowly, achingly. "You seem alright, though." She nodded to John with a wink. "Sure know how to pick 'em, Johnny boy."

John's mouth fell open. "No, it's not -" he began quickly, but Harry just smiled and slid down the railing with a farewell flourish.

"Whatever you say, Johnny!"

Luckily, their mother decided at that moment to call up again. "Boys! Dinner!"

:::

His mother had made an absolute feast. Roast chicken, rice, baked potatoes. John felt a small spark of pride, even though Sherlock had made it clear that h e was entirely uninterested and unimpressed with food.

"Looks great, Mum," he enthused, stomach growling loudly. Sherlock heard, and gave a tiny snort.

"Lovely," the other boy agreed with a bright smile. "Anything I can do to help, Mrs. Watson?"

If John knew his mother, she’d go to her grave before letting a guest help with anything. "No, no, dearie! Go sit yourself down, John can manage."

Stupid git, John thought, but he got his revenge when he brought out the chicken, the rice, and the baked potatoes, muffling a laugh at the sight of Sherlock's face, eyes wide with dismay.

"Looks delicious, doesn't it?" he murmured to the other boy, lowering himself into the neighboring chair. "Enjoy!"

“Dear Lord, please grant safety to all of our loved ones in times of danger or strife, amen.” Mrs. Watson smiled. “All right, dig in.”

John reached speedily for the two chicken legs, batting Harry's hands aw ay. "Mum!" she whined. "John doesn't get both!"

His mum smiled indulgently. "John, be a good boy and give your sister one." He plopped it in Harry's hand sullenly, smearing grease all over her palm.

Sherlock was hesitantly dishing himself rice. "How much of this am I supposed to take?" he hissed, sounding, for the first time, actually a bit frazzled. John had found Sherlock Holmes’ only weakness: nutrition.

"One more spoonful," John whispered back, feeling vindictive. Sherlock already had a mound of rice heaping his plate. "Bit different from your usual fare, isn't it?" he continued, grinning. "All that rat and human flesh must get tiring after a while."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched. "It's actually surprisingly succulent," he replied, adding, "with seasoning, of course."

“Ha.” Who knew Sherlock Holmes could make jokes? John suppressed a snicker, doling himself a large helping of rice. "Pass the salt, please."

His mum was spreading odious fake butter on her potato. "So Sherlock, dear, what do your parents do?" she asked.

John shook his head, resigned. Here comes the interrogation, he thought ruefully.

Sherlock swallowed the mouthful he had been slowly chewing. "My mother is a part-time interior designer," he answered.

"Oh, how nice! And your father?"

"He's the senior undersecretary to the deputy prime minister.”

John looked up at that, surprised. He had assumed Sherlock’s father was some blue-blooded earl, or something dumb like that. Government. That was interesting.

"How wonderful!" Mrs. Watson smiled in astonishment. "Does he enjoy his work?"

"I believe so," Sherlock responded dryly. "But it seems very confusing to me." John sniggered. Sherlock wasn’t likely to be confused by anything.

"Well, I can't argue there. But he must get to meet all sorts of people!"

Sherlock smiled. "I suppose so," he allowed, taking another bite of rice with only a seconds pause.

Thankfully, Mrs. Watson chose that point to direct her attention onto her daughter, who was staring down at her cell phone yet again and biting her lip in laughter.

"Harry," she chided gently. "No phones at the dinner table."

Harry tucked it in her pocket, still grinning.

"Unless it's a certain special someone?"

Harry ducked her head, looking embarrassed. "Mum," she complained, but the smile remained.

John's mum zipped her lips, putting on a serious face. "We shan't speak of her," she promised, and Harry actually giggled.

Things were actually going well, after all. It was a bit amazing. But John’s amusement evaporated as his mother focused on him.

"John, you haven't told us how you and Sherlock met." She scooped up the last bite of rice on her plate gracefully. "Go on, I'm dying to know."

“Yeah, Johnny,” Harry echoed with an evil little smirk. “We’d all love to hear the story.”

"Oh, well, um, he's my seat partner," John started absently. "In that class I told you about - Interpersonal Relationships."

He was startled by his mother's gasp of excitement. "Oh," she said, eyes wide. "He's that boy."

John was alarmed. "What do you mean, 'that boy'?"

"Well dear, the one you wrote that incredible poem about, of course!" She shook her head at Sherlock, smiling. "He can barely remember his own name, most days. Anyways, John, you never did tell me how your teacher liked it. I thought it was marvelous. Didn't it start with ‘He is extraordinary’ or something like that? Absolutely brilliant, it was. Very thoughtful." She winked at Sherlock. "Is it true you can tell who someone's father is by the way they wear their jeans?"

"I'll - I'll clear the dishes." John stood up abruptly, pushing back his chair and almost tripping ov er his own feet in his haste to get away. Goddamn it all, he thought viciously, balancing the rice bowl on the mushy remains of his potato.

Once in the kitchen, he heard Sherlock's chair scrape back. "I think I'll help John," he announced.

No no no no no. John sighed. Bloody humiliating. Sherlock was never supposed to read the stupid poem.

He kept his eyes locked on the garbage bin as he emptied the leftovers of his plate, then threw the fork and knife into the sink with a jarring clang.

Sherlock was quiet behind him, and as soon as John moved away he began to mimic his actions, scraping bits of uneaten food into the garbage. With an inward curse John grabbed more plates and started to repeat the process, mouth twisted in a stubborn, silent line.

"I've never seen someone get so upset over a compliment," Sherlock declared finally, pausing at John's elbow.

John ignored him, methodically continuing to clean. "Yeah, well, " he muttered. "It was supposed to be private."

"You're overreacting."

Oh, am I? he wanted to shout. Well, congratulations for figuring it out. Sherlock looked a bit flushed, and he cursed himself for noticing. He scowled and turned away, whacking the rice bowl against the side of the bin in short, violent bursts. No matter how many times he hit it, bits of rice would just cling obstinately to the sides.

Sherlock took the bowl out of John's hands. "A bit of washing might be ideal," he commented dryly, turning the faucet so a stream of water burst out. He turned it over and over in his hands so that the residue was sucked down the drain.

It was funny watching Sherlock clean, with his lips pressed together in concentration. He looked so... out of place, in John’s little kitchen with a plastic bowl, washing it out like it was the only damn thing in the world. John felt his anger slipping away, gave up on it, and just leaned ag ainst the counter top, chuckling. Sherlock looked at him warily.

"It's just -" John chuckled. "You, cleaning. Never thought I'd see the day."

The corner of Sherlock’s lips quirked up. "Yes, well," he said. "You were going to beat it within an inch of its life."

"True.” He grinned, adding a grudging, "Thanks."

"I'm sure you can do better than that, John."

Well, bloody hell. He forgot any witty reply he was going to shoot back, and ended up just raking a confused hand through his hair. It was the first time Sherlock had said his name - that was the only reason it felt so fucking weird. Sherlock never addressed anyone directly, that was all. Because you are not a queer. And even if you were - he’d be the last person you’d want to fuck. Or anything else.

:::

Sherlock called his ‘parents’ (which was really just a quick, brief text to his driver) and Mrs. Watson set them up wi th bowls of custard at the table. Harry had her own bowl but ignored them, texting furiously.

John smirked at the alarm on the taller boy's face. "Don't worry," he whispered. "Me and Harry can split yours." Sherlock nodded. "So. We've got class tomorrow."

Sherlock gave him a look that practically dripped ‘Yes, thank you, Captain Obvious.’

Huffing out a laugh, John swallowed a large mouthful of custard. "And we're going to have to talk again."

"How will I ever survive," Sherlock deadpanned, fingers playing idly with the red tablecloth.

John sucked at the end of his spoon lazily, and he didn’t realize how it must have looked until he noticed Sherlock studying him intently. Oh, bugger. He must have looked like he was fellating the bloody thing.

And with that thought (which fell under the category of incredibly stupid shit John thinks) he forgot what he was going to say again. "Um. Do you -" he broke off fearfully, changing course. "Where do you eat lunch?"

Sherlock was studying the wall, looking bored. "I don't eat lunch," he replied disdainfully.

"Right. So, erm, where do you go during lunch period?"

"Outside." Sherlock waved a vague hand, and then seemed to focus in on their conversation. He fixed John with a hard stare. "Where do you eat lunch?"

John stumbled, unable to tear himself away from the clear gray eyes across from his. Sherlock was looking at him like he was a dead grasshopper under a microscope.

He should really be unattractive. _Why the hell do I find him attractive? He should be a bloody waif because he never eats, but all that gives him is an arse like a..._ He shook his head. "They have me in a group lunch with all the other new kids," he answered. "To get us to make friends, or something. But," he added carefully, "it ended today. So I don't have anyone to eat with."

Sherlock considered him silently. " You are welcome to sit with me," he bit out stiffly, hand tightening in the folds of the tablecloth.

Well, at least the cold outside would eliminate the problem of any - unexpected visitors. John was going to have a long, long shower tonight. "Thanks."

"I typically can be found by the spruce tree in the back courtyard," Sherlock said, voice sounding thoroughly bored once more. John heard a little ping.

"Ah, Billy has arrived." Sherlock leapt up gracefully. John scrambled to stand as well. "Pleasure to meet you," he continued coolly to Harry.

She looked up for a second. "Yeah. Bye."

His mum was washing dishes when they came out. "Ready to go, dear?" she asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. Thank you for having me, Mrs. Watson."

She beamed. "Anytime, Sherlock, anytime!"

John walked him to the door, suddenly unwilling to let him leave. It sort of felt like a strange, mad dream, one that would disappear the instant Sherlock slipped ou t his door and into the nighttime.

They both paused. "Goodbye," Sherlock said finally, pulling up the collar of his austere black coat.

John cleared his throat awkwardly. "’Bye."

At last Sherlock turned, pulling open the door handle. "The spruce tree, John," he repeated, and then slid out the door. John watched, mouth a large 'O' of wonder, eyes following the tall, thin body as it was swallowed up by the blackness.

 

***

 

It was a blustery, chilling day, the kind that Sherlock hated. The water cycle, as his biology 'teacher' so patronizingly called it, could be a great source of annoyance when it wished to. He turned the corner of the school rapidly, striding towards the almost-bare tree and well-worn bench he made his home for the 45 minutes they were given each afternoon.

Except today was different, because instead of a simply forbidding black trunk there was a lone figure as well, looking small and cold in the wind. The body was of medium build, and even from a distance he could make out the blond locks covering the person’s head, most likely mussed from the gusts of wind whipping through the courtyard. John.

Sherlock felt a strange tension ease out of him at the sight, and frowned. When had he started thinking of the boy as 'John'? Probably when he started calling you 'Sherlock', a voice that sounded irritatingly similar to Mycroft's answere d.

With a few long steps the blur sharpened into a hunched and miserable John, clutching a sad satchel.

"Good afternoon," Sherlock said formally. John looked up and made a face, teeth chattering and cheeks rosy with blood. He looked to be extremely uncomfortable, and Sherlock felt something at the thought of him waiting alone in the bellowing wind. Unexpected, he’d admit. How long had John been expecting him?

"Took you long enough.” John smiled, the clattering of his teeth stopping with the distraction. "I've been freezing my - well, my toes off." He slid over a bit so Sherlock could take a seat, which he did, bringing his knees up to his chest and wrapping a pair of gloved hands around them.

"So." John unwrapped a small tinfoil parcel to reveal a neatly made ham sandwich. "Here we are."

Sherlock noticed that his fingers were red and trembling with the cold. "Why don't you have gloves?" he queried, hands rubbing at his cold le gs.

"I'm eating."

His calves were not warming from the friction. Sherlock scowled. "And?"

John huffed a puff of wintry air, smiling. "Oh, right," he said through a mouthful. "I forgot you don't really do that." He swallowed and continued. "People don't eat with gloves on."

"I am aware of that." He hadn't meant to sound so petulant. "But being one with considerable medical knowledge, wouldn't you know to value full use of your hand over filling your belly? Frostbite is easily contracted at this time in winter."

John's face was flushed, and Sherlock assumed it was from the cold. "I wouldn't call it considerable," he said, licking his lips. They were shiny, redder than normal, and Sherlock watched, fascinated, as they expelled tiny flurries of frosty air. He tore his gaze away, feeling a sharp prick of panic, but John didn't seem to have noticed.

"Do me a favor, though," he persisted. "Just eat some of my carrots."

Sherlock looke d back disdainfully. "Carrots?" he asked, raising his eyebrow at the stumpy orange sticks. "I'd rather not." He buried his face in the juncture between his knees, face warming as hot breath filled the space.

John's voice was distant and foggy. "Come on, Sherlock."

The icy air was like a slap of cold water on his face. "Why?"

"Because you need to eat. Something."

"Fine." He took the carrots mutinously, biting down. They were flavorless, at least.

"There," John said with a grin. "That wasn't so hard, was it now?"

"Your patronizing tone is not appreciated, John."

They were silent for a few minutes, but it was a contemplative silence, a peaceful silence, at least for him. John ate his way slowly through his lunch while Sherlock pondered a particularly thorny mathematical equation, Fermat's Theorem.

Normally, he would have been on edge, constantly alert as he was sitting so close to a person that wasn't his father, Mycroft or Mummy. But John was harmless. His breathing was a steady smooth rhythm of exhale and inhale, punctuated by crunching or the sound of sloshing liquid. It was almost soothing to hear, not bothersome and distracting as he would have anticipated. He could picture John beside him, sharp and clear behind his eyes. Pink fingers filled with sandwich, every so often moving to his mouth to take a large bite, and then retreating as the boy chewed thoroughly, conscientiously.

He glanced at John's face. Ruminative. Intriguing. What could he thinking so intensely about?

There was a barely audible beep, and Sherlock looked over again to see John check his watch.

"Time's up," the boy said with a short sigh. "Better get to class."

The thought of the school, warmed by body heat, was more alluring than Sherlock wanted to admit. He sighed, unfolding himself from the bench and frowning as his stiff muscles protested.

John waited patiently as he wrapped his coat mor e thoroughly around himself. The one issue with maintaining a semi-anorexic diet, he believed, was that it made one increasingly susceptible to cold weather.

:::

"Today, since it's Friday, I thought we'd take a break from the project," Lestrade announced once everyone was accounted for. "We're going to watch a film about anger management."

There was a collective groan. "Now, now," the teacher chided, grinning. "It'll help you." He slid the disc into the computer, pressing play on a brightly colored pop-up entitled, "What Happens When You Get Angry?"

The film began, moving in slowly on a morose-looking man. "Everyone gets angry," he intoned solemnly, and Sherlock lost any misguided interest he might have had and started to practice going into a trance. Properly done, he could 'rest his mind' while appearing wide-awake. So far his attempts were unsuccessful, as he kept accidentally falling asleep. It wasn’t his fault that this terrible ex cuse for a school had decided to place him in these ‘classes’; the least he could do was try to get some use out of them by rejuvenating his synapses.

Trying his hardest to focus on calming his mind (more difficult than expected given the drone of monotone voices in the background), Sherlock felt a light tap on his arm. He opened his eyes quickly, looking to his left at John. The boy grinned at him, and pointed to a small scrap of paper on the desk in front of him.

Curious, Sherlock unfolded it discreetly. Passing notes, he thought, smirking. Novel.

'Two men walk into a bar,' John had scribbled. 'One asks for H²0.'

There was nothing else. Sherlock flipped the note over. One word - 'guess.'

He frowned and scrawled back, 'This is ridiculous. You have not given me sufficient data to make any sort of estimation.'

John took the note, biting his lip to hide a smile as he read the reply.

A few moments later it landed back on Sherlock's desk. 'The other asks for H²O, too.' On the back it said: 'The second man dies.'

Sherlock understood the joke immediately, curling his lip. H²0², otherwise known as hydrogen peroxide, a deadly compound when ingested in large amounts. 'Brilliant,' he wrote back sarcastically.

John's reply came within seconds. 'I thought you might like it. I chose a chemistry one just for you.'

At that Sherlock couldn't help but let out a breath of laughter, feeling a peculiar frisson of warmth spark through him. He looked over at John, who seemed pleased with himself, and raised his eyebrow. John shrugged, grabbed the note back, and wrote, 'I know, I know, I'm a complete and utter idiot.' He added a flamboyant smiley face.

'No, you're not' was the reply that jumped into Sherlock's mind, but he could hardly write that. The boy was fishing for compliments, obviously. Sher lock had already informed John of his opinion on his intelligence.

Fortunately, he was saved the trouble of having to think of a response.

"Gentlemen." Lestrade looked amused. "I dearly hope that I shall not have to read that note to the class."

Sherlock said nothing, regarding the man with a cool stare. John coughed, trying to wipe the grin of his face, but Sherlock could still hear it in his voice.

"Sorry, sir."

"Don't apologize to me," Lestrade said dryly. "Apologize to yourself. You're depriving yourselves of this -" he looked at the screen, which showed a boy curled up in the fetal position - "beautiful piece of art."

Sherlock glanced over at John, and he looked back with a wry sort of half-smile, like they were connected, somehow: partners in crime, sharing a laugh. Preposterous, Sherlock sniffed, letting his eyes linger on the other boy even after he turned his head back to watch the film, something that seemed to be becoming a habit. Absolutely ludicrous.

Incapable of maintaining extra-familial relationships, his (fifth) psychologist had said. That particular observation had been shared after the exploding bird incident, an event for which Sherlock was entirely blameless. It had been Mycroft who suggested testing the old wives tale that the consumption of rice could cause the internal organs of a common street pigeon to burst. For science, Sherlock had told the woman, to no avail.

But it did bear some thought. He had visited John’s house, not to mention eaten his food. But he couldn’t possible be capable of doing something so inane as ‘making friends.’ As each of his useless therapists and psychiatrists had informed his parents, Sherlock Holmes did not have friends. John was interesting, he’d admit that much. It seemed practical, for lack of a more fitting word, to continue their association.

To his left, Joh n made a sound like a badly suppressed snicker at some no doubt laughable line in the film. Sherlock glanced over, interested despite himself. The boy was biting his lip so his laughter wouldn’t be heard, eyes crinkled at the corners, something that spoke of true amusement rather than Mycroft’s reptilian, toothless smile. He had an elegant profile, which was surprising, and his hair curled near the ears, golden against his almost-as-tanned skin. Sherlock could see a tiny nick where he must have cut himself with his razor that morning.

Sherlock refocused himself, face unnaturally warm, and even though it was dreadfully cliche he thought he could feel his heart pumping, desperate and loud like an animal pounding at the walls of its cage. What in God's name was wrong with him? In any case, John hadn’t noticed his staring, and was blinking slowly at the screen of the television, sleepiness evident in every part of his body.

For some r eason, Sherlock found it very hard to maintain a trance-like state after that.

:::

The film ended a few seconds before the bell sounded, jolting and obnoxious. Sherlock wasted no time in standing up, grabbing his bag, and with an impatient sigh tapped his foot emphatically against the ground. John was struggling with his binders, swearing softly as papers dropped on the floor.

"You could help, you know, instead of just bloody standing there."

Sherlock tsked. "Please. I have no desire to get down on my knees for you." He reached into his pockets for his phone, and then noticed John had paused, looking up at him with a grin. "What?" He mulled over what he had said. I have no desire to - oh. "Childish," he told John, cursing the blood that rushed to his ears. Double-meaning. Obvious.

Smirking, John got to his feet. Sherlock led the way out of the classroom, but they got no farther than the fourth row of lockers before they were stopped by a mousy haired girl: Sarah Sawyer, junior, daughter of local surgeon.

"John!" She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, grinning shyly. "You forgot your calculator." She held it out, biting her lip.

Sherlock felt a strange tightening in his stomach. Irritating girl. Other students swarmed around them, pushing him to either side as he stood still. That was what came of of associating oneself with others - nothing but hindrances.

John looked a bit confused, but smiled back. "Thanks," he replied, taking it and stowing it in his bag. "Well, see you."

Sarah seemed disappointed. "Yeah," she said, backing away and glancing warily at Sherlock. "Anytime."

John stopped at his locker, pulling it open. Sarah and her friends were chatting nearby, and Sherlock felt their eyes drift over to John every so often, accompanied by a burst of giggles.

"She wishes to talk to you," he informed the other boy, gazing down at his phone.

"Does she?"

"Y es."

"And why's that?"

Sherlock scowled. "I would imagine because - pardon my colloquialism - she ‘fancies’ you." He stabbed at the end button savagely, thrusting his phone into his pocket.

"Oh?"

John was a red-blooded male; he should be jumping with joy at the thought of a chance to get off. Instead he was calmly shoving his books in his bag, looking for all intents and purposes wholly disinterested.

"It was patently obvious, John. Her mannerisms - touching her hair, biting her lip, tugging at her clothes - they all point to nerves, apprehension. Why would she be nervous? Conclusion: speaking to you was an important activity to her. Head cocked to the side - a subconscious reaction to her attraction to you. Simple."

John didn't seem to be affected by this new information. "Cool," he replied absently, finally slamming his locker shut. He looked back at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow. "We should probably get going."

Sher lock began to stride away, John hurrying after him. "You do wish to fraternize with her," he said. It wasn't a question.

"No, not really." John looked bemused. "Should I?"

"Don't pretend, John. You're dreadful at it, and lying doesn't become you well."

John quickened his pace. "I'm not lying," he said with a hint of anger.

"Please. A half-way attractive girl basically throws herself at you and you don't even feel a shred of interest? I may not be the expert in social relations but I can figure out simple adolescent motivations." Sherlock didn't quite know where the words were coming from, and they were becoming sharp and heated. He moved his long legs faster, pressing his lips together. "And you needn't worry, John. She won't reject you, no matter how much you stutter and stumble."

"Sherlock!" John stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, looking incredulous. "That's not – you think I'm afraid of her not fancying me? " Sherlock didn't bot her to answer, glaring past him. "Maybe I just don’t think about her that way, ever considered that? You don't bloody know everything all the time, alright?"

Losing control of his temper, Sherlock leaned forward, invading John's personal space. "But I do," he hissed. John barely flinched, stubbornly keeping eye contact.

"No, you really don't."

They were very close, Sherlock realized. He could make out the pale, almost invisible fringe of John’s eyelashes, the line of his lips, and the dark blue of his eyes. His angry eyes. Sherlock felt his pulse speed up once again, stomach doing some unusual wobbling thing that was extremely unsettling. At the last minute he stopped the urge to cock his own head to the side, damning all physiological impulses.

John looked away first, jaw working. He let out a laugh, running his hand through his hair.

"Fucking hell," he said finally, and Sherlock was trying very hard to listen to his words fro m a distance, to keep remote. "Do I have to whack you upside the head to get it through your thick skull? Whatever little box you put me in, whatever list of predicted behaviour patterns you have for me - none of it seems to be right." He rubbed his mouth, staring up earnestly at Sherlock. "Really. So please, please stop being a prat."

A pretty speech, Sherlock thought, idly noting that his heart rate had, in fact, markedly increased. "I don't put people in boxes," he managed finally, frowning.

John laughed. "Oh really?" he teased, shifting his bag on his shoulder and grinning. "Mr. I'm a genius and everyone else is just scum on my Prada boots?"

Sherlock must have been staring again but it was only because he had never met a human could could change moods so swiftly as John. Bipolar, perhaps. Then again, perhaps not. He quirked his lips - best not to show show that he was discomfited. "That's by far the most accurate thing you've said all day, John.”

The boy grinned, then looked around, spotting Sherlock's car. "Your carriage awaits, sire."

Stifling a frown, Sherlock nodded. He had assumed John would ask him to participate in some frivolous activity. That was what ‘mates’ did, from what he could gather.

"Well." John had a look that was equal parts awkward and amused. "Bye." He started to make his way to the front of the school. Sherlock stared after him, opening his mouth, and then mashing it shut.

"John!" Treacherous vocal chords. Sherlock was sure his nervous system had never given them the order to shout out that particular name.

Already a good distance away, the boy turned around, squinting. "Yeah?" he called back.

Sherlock waited for him to retrace his steps before beginning again. "I am in need of an extra pair of hands for an experiment," he stated, carefully keeping his eyes on the parking lot.

John looked up at him, and now his face sp elled out nothing but amusement. "And?"

Billy was still waving to him from the driver's seat. Sherlock's mouth twisted. "And what?"

"Spit out whatever you want to say, Sherlock, I'm going to miss the bus," John said, pressing his lips together in an effort to hide his grin. He was teasing, Sherlock realized with a scowl.

"Would you like to assist me?" he allowed coldly, trying to regain some shred of dignity.

"Well, don't sound so enthusiastic, whatever you do." John relented. "Alright. Sounds like a good time."

"Fine." Sherlock turned towards the car, and swallowed. There was a peculiar lump in his throat. Hm. He would have to check himself for gastroenteritis again. "Good."

 

***

 

"No! Hold it like this," Sherlock instructed, placing his hand over John's without thinking. They squeezed the pipette together, and a thin stream of clear liquid shot into the test tube.

Sherlock released the other boy's hand quickly, face coloring. He kept his back to John as he fumbled with the petri dish by the sink. What had he been thinking? Touching was not permitted, under the rules of human interaction, he had learned. Especially not among ‘friendships’ between boys.

This whole endeavor was much more difficult than he had imagined.

Thankfully, his mother had been absent when they first arrived, crunching up the long gravel driveway. John had stared up at his house in wonder. It was quite large, Sherlock had to admit, an old Victorian home that looked eerily foreboding in dusk or nighttime. He knew his family was wealthy, definitely more so than John’s. It didn’t matter to him either way, though certain things were best acquire d through legal means, and that made money a necessary tool.

They were having work done on the east wing, as well as Mycroft's old room, which his mother wanted to turn into a studio for her decorating business. She had wanted to tear down Sherlock's laboratory, but he had fought tooth and nail, sulked and starved himself pointedly until she agreed to leave it as it was.

John's mouth had fallen open at the sight Sherlock's lab: the piles of books, the ominous looking containers, the strangely colored flasks. Sherlock had felt an alien spark of pride, showing him what each held and stifling a laugh when he knocked over a bowl of rat eyes with a yelp.

Then they had embroiled themselves in the ‘experiment,’ attempting to determine how John's friend hydrogen peroxide affected the microbial biodegradation of polychlorinated biphenyls. It was something he had wanted to investigate for years.

"Now hold this," he told John, who took the petri dish careful ly, cradling it in his hands. "Watch it for color change or any unusual odor."

"How will I be able to tell if it's unusual?" John peered questioningly at the yellowish fluid.

Sherlock smiled. "You will." He crossed the room and plucked a test tube out of the rack. "And now we just add this."

He poured the clear liquid into the dish with a careful tilt of his wrist. John watched steadily, but Sherlock felt the boy’s eyes flick up to study his face more than once. It was distracting, but he shook off his discomfort, and they waited for a few moments.

"Oh, ugh!" John pinched his nose, gagging. "What the hell is that?"

"The sweet scent of bioremediation, of course.”

They looked at each other; John’s eyebrows raised quizzically and eyes wide with amused incredulity. He burst into laughter, sliding down onto the floor. Sherlock smiled down at him, even though he was confused as to the source of his amusement.

"I don't know why that's funny," John admitted with a breathless laugh, clutching at his stomach. "But it is."

Sherlock sat down beside him, resting his chin on his knees. "I've been called many things, but never 'funny.’”

John stilled, looking at him with something dangerously close to pity, and Sherlock tensed. The words had sounded bitter, but he hadn’t intended them that way. He watched John’s forehead wrinkle, mouth parted slightly as if he was going to reply.

"Sherlock!"

He grimaced, getting to his feet - Mummy had finally arrived. In truth, he had nothing against his mother. She was caring at times, almost to the point of smothering him, but her iron will had taught him many things. And her taste in clothes had certainly ensured that he didn’t embarrass himself dressing like a “street hoodlum,” as she would say.

He stalked out into the hallway. "I'm here."

Violet Holmes was a fashionably slight woman, immaculately dressed. She drape d her mink coat, covered in snow, in the hands of their butler. "The roads are an absolute travesty," she announced, displeased. "Your father had to send a car to pick me up."

John had wandered out uncertainly behind him, and Sherlock knew enough about ‘manners’ to know he was waiting for an introduction. He sighed. "Mummy, this is John Watson."

His mother looked up, and if she was surprised to see that Sherlock had brought someone home, she didn't show it. She crossed the room, peeling off her gloves. "A pleasure to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too, Mrs. Holmes."

She smoothed her wet hair, frowning, and inspected John for a moment with clear blue eyes. "Have you phoned your mother yet, John?”

Sherlock looked up at that. What could have happened? An accident? But Mummy hadn’t even known there was a connection between her son and the Watson family, and besides, why would she know something like that? She was hardly the person to be n otified, unless it had been one of those strange cases, and Father had informed her of it in that offhand manner he had. Whatever it was, it would be a regrettable event for John, of course. Sherlock slanted a glance at him, feeling something strangely close to sympathy.

The blonde boy looked as confused as Sherlock felt, and his eyebrows had drawn together in alarm. "No, I don’t think so. Has something happened?"

"No, no, nothing of the sort." Mrs. Holmes smiled. "You two must have been very focused on your experiment not to have noticed the blizzard outside. My husband tells me they will have to close off the roads." She sighed.

Ah, so it was simply the weather. The feeling vanished, and Sherlock almost smiled himself. Perhaps the dangerous conditions would carry over into the school week. He tuned his mother out, considering the possibilities of days unbothered by academic frivolities.

" - so terrible when this kind of thing happens, but what can be done? Oh, and don’t worry about getting home, John. Please tell your mother that we'd be delighted to have you stay over with us until the storm lets up."

Bored with the conversation, Sherlock felt a strange swooping in his stomach at the words. That was out of the question. Damn it all. "I’m sure that Father can arrange proper transportation,” he told John with a smile, feigning a calm he did not possess. He was not, under any circumstances, going to open his home to a teenage boy. Out of the question.

His mother shook her head. “Unfortunately, even my husband cannot control the weather,” she said lightly. Sherlock heard the warning underneath them: play nice, or else. "I'm sure Sherlock would love a sleepover.”

"Erm." John looked marginally less uncomfortable than he had before. He scuffed a foot on the carpet. "Thanks very much. That’s, er, very kind.” He waved his mobile. “I s’pose I should go call my mum, then."

“Well then, it’s all settled.” Mrs. Holmes clapped her hands together, looking far too pleased for anyone’s good. "I'll go see Andrew about bringing a spare bed into Sherlock's room."

Sherlock started once again, throat dry. "My room?" he repeated incredulously. "We have many other rooms he could sleep in!"

"Yes, darling, but those are all either filled with toxic paint fumes or in the process of being torn to the ground." She gave him a reproachful look. "And your play-laboratory is next on the list. I need another sitting room for my new Monet." She swept out of the room, perfectly coiffed hair bobbing.

Sherlock kept his eyes locked on the floor. Of all the times to have a snowstorm - the timing was inordinately cruel. He sighed.

“My bedroom is this way.”

 

***

 

Unlike many other locations, Sherlock was fond of his room. His bed was always made, rather sloppily, a condition from his mother after he had refused to let the maids touch it. It was large and soft, and he liked to curl up in it and read, nestled in the covers. There wasn’t too much clutter so that he couldn’t think straight, but it wasn’t spartan enough to seem alien. Every possession was in its proper place. The decor, as Mummy had explained, was centered around white, and so the color was in the curtains, the bedspread, the walls, and even the paintings.

Generally a bland room, Sherlock decided, pleased. It showed little, if anything, about him. He was confident that John couldn’t find a single jot of embarrassing information hidden away.

"This is - nice." John was smiling, and Sherlock couldn’t help but give him a smirk in return.

"That's a matter of opinion." It was beginning to get dark already, and he could see thick white h aze falling outside the window.

"Oh, and my mum says thank you. For letting me stay over. She’d been worried about the roads, too.”

"You are welcome," Sherlock replied stiffly. Silence hung awkwardly in the room, stretching as he watched John look around. He had some awful sense of panic twinging distractingly in his stomach, watching the boy take in Sherlock’s own private things with that concentrated look of his which Sherlock was learning to fear. Panic, yes, but mixed with some other odd sentiment - almost like apprehension, nerves twisting around and leaving him close to breathless and dry-mouthed. It was absolutely ridiculous.

He almost felt relieved when Mummy knocked once (she always did, to cut out unnecessary noise). "Sherlock," she called as warning, and promptly opened the door. She held a neatly folded pile of clothes. "Here you go, John. Pajamas and fresh underthings." She held them out, oblivious to the embarrassment Sherlock w as attempting to mentally send her way. He didn’t want to think about where she had obtained those clothes. He didn’t want to even have the - the mental image of John wearing his -

John reddened. "Thanks," he said, taking the clothes. “I hope I’m not being too much of a bother.”

Mrs. Holmes smiled, eyes entirely too amused to bode well, and Sherlock glared at her. No meddling.

The warning didn’t seem to have the desired effect, as his mother simply folded her lips to hide a chuckle. "My pleasure. Let Andrew know if you need anything," she called over her shoulder as she left.

Clutching the stack of clothes, John cleared his throat. "I don’t, er, want to impose.” He grinned hesitantly. “Maybe I could get out of your way for a bit, so I’m not too much of a nuisance?” Sherlock stared while he cast around for an idea, running his hand through his already disorderly hair. Well, perhaps this whole event wouldn’t be too difficult after all - John seemed to understand that Sherlock didn’t want to ‘entertain’ for the night.

“Oh, hang on,” John looked up. “Do you - do you mind if I take a shower?" he asked. "That way I wouldn’t bother you. I dunno why, I just always take them at night. Something about the temperature, is all, and Harry always hogs the toilet in the mornings -”

He was nervous, Sherlock realized with a jolt. Free hand twisted in his trousers, licking his lips every ten seconds. He had no idea why that would be. He himself was completely fine with the idea. In any case, the arrangement would allow him to work unhindered for a good amount of time.

Except of course, there was the problem of clothes. Or rather, the lack thereof. Man had his origins sans clothing, yet Sherlock would prefer those around him to keep themselves covered. It made avoiding certain biological functions easier to avoid.

It wasn’t as if he were some unspoiled prude, because he knew what went on in order to conceive a child. He knew what almost every teenage male did with his hand; he’d attempted to himself when the issue had first arisen. (It was messy, and he’d taken care of the problem whenever it came up quickly and with distaste.) But Sherlock had never experimented with visual stimulation, be it magazines full of steroid-pumped giants, fantasies starring celebrities or even ones with fellow classmates. The latter was likely ruled out by the fact that each one was mentally repulsive.

But John wasn’t like the others, that much he could admit. Could Sherlock actually be attracted to a male of his own age? He ran his eyes quickly down John’s form. Slim, lean and muscled. His skin was smooth, soft even the tops of his hands where Sherlock had touched him earlier. Tan, with sandy hair that was likely to be trimmed in the near future. But it looked - it looked fine, as it was. Sherlock had never understood mothers’ need to take their sons to the barber more than once a month. John’s hair was mussed slightly, and it gave him a comfortable look, lived-in and warm.

Going lower brought the damn feeling back, tingling low in his stomach and a queer hitch in his breathing. It was clear that John had, to say the least, athletic legs. Muscular. His trousers were fitted like those the other boys wore, and from the way he was standing Sherlock could see that he had a very - for God’s sake, why couldn’t he think?

He must have looked almost manic, blood heating his cheeks, and he sucked in a surprised breath because John’s face was pink, eyes confusedly locked on Sherlock’s - but there was something else there, he could see it. And yet he couldn’t decode it, he couldn’t understand the damn boy at all. John must have noticed the staring - how could Sherlock have been so unforgivably stupid?

"Fine," he said, attempting a d isinterested tone. He held his breath, feeling his heart thud loudly in his chest. Just go.

John blinked. “Er, alright.” He bit his lip, watching Sherlock like he was a tiger escaped from his cage, and took a few tentative steps towards the loo. "Do you mind showing me how to turn it on?" he asked, pausing at the entrance.

Sherlock scowled and then brushed past him, making sure not to touch the other boy with any part of his body. "It's relatively uncomplicated," he told John coldly, pressing a button underneath the lever, and then turning it to the hottest level.

"Thanks." John was standing right beside him, Sherlock knew, and though it was scientifically improbable he thought he could feel the heat emanating from the shorter boy’s body. It reminded him of an interaction he had endured some time ago - some imbecile had called him ‘Ice Queen.’ It was hardly important, comical really, as he’d been called much worse, but the memory n agged in the back of his mind. Who had it been?

Yes, he remembered now. Sally Donovan. She’d offered up her body (it had been unexpected, and to this day he couldn’t seem to completely understand her motive) to him in the back cluster of trees where Sherlock smoked his daily cigarette at school. Seemed to think it was a bargain, too. He, the hapless virgin, would get the ecstasy of sexual favors, while she would receive the attention lavished on Sherlock Holmes’s first partner. Needless to say, he’d turned her down. She was intelligent - threatened to reveal his smoking if he told anyone (not before calling him some choice names, he might add). Donovan wasn’t as unpleasant as the others. Certainly had marginal intelligence. She could have a career someday, though Sherlock didn’t think they would ever cross paths.

In any case, it was quite ironic. He, the ice queen, and John, who was so remarkably warm he likely ran as hot as a furnace. O pposites attract, some would say.

“Well, shall I just use the towels on the rack, then?” John stood uncertainly, hands shoved in his pockets.

Sherlock glanced at the cabinet shelves dismissively. “Yes, of course.” He made his way towards the door. "I shall be in the laboratory,” he informed John, and fled.

 

***

 

As soon as he got himself under control, he set about recording the data from their experiment, focusing on keeping his mind fully on measuring and labeling, and far away from his room and anyone inside it.

Except to calculate the density of the gas they had created, and to identify it, Sherlock was going to need to use his computer. The one unavoidably located in his room. To make matters worse, it even had a special plug matched to a socket that he had specifically ordered be drilled into his bedroom wall. Not an option, he told himself firmly. He was not going to allow himself to be anywhere near John Watson, considering how - how utterly mindless he had been acting. It was almost as if he were inebriated, staring blank-faced into the distance, unable to put a godforsaken sentence together.

He spent a total of forty three seconds glaring at the beaker in front of him before stomping off into his room.

Sherlock had an estimate d eight to ten minutes before John would finish showering and exit the lavatory. Perhaps twelve, if he was lucky and John decided to use the toilet as well. He booted up the computer quickly, stubbornly refusing to think about the steady thrum of water through the wall beside him. His stomach was light and his pulse throbbed, fingers twitching with nerves and the concentration required to keep his mind on anything but the water splashing in the next room.

The door creaked open during the sixth minute, and Sherlock looked up in alarm. He prepared to explain what he was doing, but the words died somewhere in his pharynx.

John stepped out in nothing but a towel, dripping wet and flushed pink from the heat. He seemed not to notice Sherlock, who was sitting frozen in the corner. He crossed the room and bent down, holding the towel carefully across his lower half, while Sherlock tried to say something, anything, but couldn't.

Finally, John procured a pair of boxer briefs from the side of the bed. He turned, saw Sherlock, and yelped, nearly losing his grip on his towel.

"What the hell -" John tripped, and then regained his balance. "I thought you were -"

"I needed to use my computer," Sherlock returned, wincing at the catch in his voice. He swallowed and forced himself to keep his eyes locked on John's. "The water is still running," he accused. It was John's fault, obviously. His hair was stuck in damp spikes, and Sherlock watched a fat drop of water dribble over his belly and get swallowed up in the towel.

John had a flat, tanned stomach, and a broad, softly muscled chest. He looked lithe, like a jaguar, and compact. Hard. From the rugby, Sherlock thought faintly, and wondered if John’s legs were as defined from his habitual running.

John's indignant voice broke into his consciousness. "I couldn't figure out how to turn it off," he muttered. "Bloody thing." He was looking down, lower lip caught in his teeth, and Sherlock couldn’t tell whether his face was crimson from the temperature or from something closer to embarrassment.

Sherlock wished he would just return to the shower. He was bringing an abnormal amount of heat with him, and the humidity blanketed the room with each breath Sherlock took. Calm yourself, he instructed shortly, and swallowed. John was - well, whatever he was, it wasn’t something that Sherlock wanted to - involve himself with. On the contrary. John was golden-boy to Sherlock’s brooding villain; the attractive leading man to his own vampiric outsider.

“I should probably go and -” John gestured back to the sound of the shower. He looked uncomfortable, still, but his back was straight and his eyes were almost challenging, locked on Sherlock’s. As if he knew -

He must know, Sherlock thought with a heady ripple of fear and desire as John licked his lips. He glanced towards Sherlock’s bed, like he was searching for something else to say, and Sherlock had a sudden vision of him splayed out on it, knees parted obscenely and -

Damn his mind. Damn it to a cold, miserable Hell. Sherlock’s mouth was too dry to swallow down his insanity.

Finally giving up on continuing the conversation, John retreated a few steps. "Be right out," he said quietly, and disappeared to change.


End file.
